


Conversations In The Dark

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Confessions, Feelings of Helplessness, Feelings of guilt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-04 15:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6664762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without any warning, Peter is gravely injured. In the aftermath, many people come to visit the fallen FBI agent and suddenly find themselves laying their souls poignantly bare while in his presence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Harm's Way

     Peter called Neal bright and early on a beautiful autumn Saturday in late October.

     “Whatcha up to, Buddy?” he asked casually.

     Neal had not expected his handler’s call, and sincerely hoped that Peter was not putting him on the clock for some FBI operation that couldn’t wait for the open of the business week on Monday.

     “Well,” Neal answered perversely, “I’m kinda busy at the moment, Peter, forging the _‘Pieta’_  in the middle of my loft. I’ve got marble chips and dust everywhere, and it’s a real mess.”

     “Hmmm, isn’t that going to present a problem when you’re done?” Peter mused thoughtfully. “I don’t see how you’ll be able to get that huge sculpture through your doorway and down the stairs.”

     “Got that covered,” Neal retorted in the same mocking tone. “Mozzie and I plan to use a pulley and lever system to lift it off the balcony.”

     “How about you take a break for a bit, Michelangelo,” Peter cajoled. “This weekend is the opening of the new Egyptian exhibit at the MoMA—twelve whole galleries of artifacts from the Middle Kingdom. El has to cater a wedding, so I need a date. Now don’t act coy and play hard to get—just say yes and I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

     Neal was quick to respond. “Regardless of your patronizing opinion of me, Peter, I’ll have you know that I’m not that easy. I need assurances that I’m going to be treated gallantly by my escort. So, after you get your fill of ankhs, mummies, and Ptolemaic whatever, I want to see the Goya and Caravaggio paintings that are on exhibit in another wing of the museum.”

     “Seriously?” Peter groaned. “Don’t you ever get your fill of looking at stuffy old masters?”

     “Peter, the MoMA is outside my radius, and I just want to stop by and say ‘Hi’ to some old friends. To pacify you, there is also a Frederick Remington exhibit that might be more your speed and keep your interest while I am into my admiring. Remington is the guy who did those bronze sculptures of American cowboys and Indians.”

     “I know who he is, Neal. I’m not an uncultured barbarian, regardless of _your_ opinion.”

     Of course, in the end, Neal gave in, and Peter dropped by to pick him up an hour later.

     As the “couple” walked through the Egyptian exhibit, Peter was in his glory, peering intently at each and every artifact behind the glass displays.

     Neal looked at him fondly and remarked, “Wow, Peter, you really look like the embodiment of an ‘Archeologist.’ I can just picture you in a past life right alongside of Lord Carnarvon excavating King Tut’s tomb. Got any noted English relatives?”

     “No, none of my ancestors hail from England, Neal. There’s no one titled or famous in that mix. How about you? Are there any illustrious Irish poets, novelists, or artists in your family tree?”

     “Nah, most likely they were all poor potato farmers that arrived in steerage to New York harbor during the famine in the Emerald Isle,” Neal mused.

     “Where those enterprising souls probably swelled the ranks of ‘The Irish Travelers’ who were already here in the States,” Peter quipped. He was referring to the secretive cult of iterant Irish gypsies and charlatans who made their fortunes by utilizing convincing confidence games involving fraudulent services and merchandise.

     “Peter,” Neal sighed, “why do you always insist on making derogatory remarks about me?”

     His handler smiled affectionately, “Because yanking your chain just gives me so much pleasure, my bonded young slave. It’s called payback for all the grief that you put me through while I was chasing you.”

     “Well, I’m so happy that I can make your day,” Neal sniped right back. “Now I’m upping the ante ‘cause you owe me for all that disrespect. I want to have lunch at that Mediterranean restaurant on 52nd Street, ‘The Fig and Olive.’ They have a passion for using only the purest olive oil to enhance sumptuous dishes representing the South of France, Italy, and Spain. And their wine list is extensive and impressive.”

     “Sounds expensive,” Peter remarked.

     “Not to worry, Simon Legree, we can go Dutch treat. It will be worth it to broaden your palate so that it encompasses something other than meat and potatoes,” Neal challenged. “Elizabeth will probably thank me if I can convert you.”

     So, Peter allowed Neal to peruse his beloved masters for the next hour before they departed for the touted restaurant. Peter would never admit it to his CI, but the food wasn’t half-bad as far as light fare went, and being with Neal in a non-confrontational and amicable atmosphere was pleasant. Peter was in a good mood and realized that he didn’t want to sling any more taunting barbs today at this quixotic man under his supervision.

     The copacetic aura didn’t last very long, however. Fate was plotting to put Peter in harm’s way. As the two men were walking along the sidewalk back to the car, the unthinkable happened. Neal would later be told that the horrible accident occurred because of road rage on the part of some taxi that had been cut off by another car. The cabbie had maliciously sped up to tailgate the offender when he inadvertently hit the other car’s bumper causing the driver to lose control and careen up onto the curb and directly into Peter.

     Neal saw his friend’s body being flipped up in the air like a rag doll before plummeting back down to the sidewalk. The con man actually heard the back of Peter’s head hit the concrete with a sickening crack. He immediately knelt down beside his handler, who was ominously silent and unresponsive with his eyes closed. The frantic young man, afraid that there might be an injury to Peter’s neck or spinal cord, dared not move anything. He just kept touching Peter’s arm and reassuring him that he was not alone, and promising something that he wasn’t sure was true.

     “You’re going to be okay, Buddy. Just hang in there until help arrives. I won’t leave you!”

     Witnesses had immediately pulled out their cell phones and had begun dialing 911, but it seemed as if it took forever before ambulance personnel arrived on the scene. The paramedics did their thing quickly and efficiently, placing an immobilizing collar around Peter’s neck, and then loading his unconscious body into their vehicle that was bound for Lenox Hill Hospital. Neal clamored in alongside of his friend, afraid to ask anything of the medical personnel because he was too scared to hear what they might say.

     After Peter had been whisked away through a set of automatic doors, Neal sat ramrod straight in a hard plastic chair in the waiting room. He had made all the necessary calls and knew that someone from the White Collar office would be locating Elizabeth and escorting her to the hospital. Now, Neal just had to wait alone. His body felt cold all over, while his mouth was parched and dry. He realized that this was the aftermath of panicked adrenalin surging through his bloodstream, but knowing the physiology and doing something to regain an equilibrium were entirely two different things. However, he was determined to get it all together so that he could be strong for Elizabeth.

     Eventually, he was joined by grim-faced Jones and Diana who flanked a frightened and tense Elizabeth. Reese Hughes followed soon after to join the somber little group huddled in a corner of the family waiting room. No one spoke much or even availed themselves of the complimentary coffee on a nearby counter. Neal thought if he tried to drink the liquid, he would throw up.

     “Peter was so gung-ho on seeing that Egyptian exhibit,” Elizabeth murmured. “I should have gone with him.”

     “Elizabeth, it’s my fault that Peter was where he was when the accident happened,” Neal insisted. “I’m the one who talked him into going to that restaurant,” he ended miserably.

     “Caffrey,” Hughes softly remarked. “For once, this is not your fault.”

     Neal just wished that he could believe that. The guilt was leaden on his shoulders, and nothing anyone could say at this point would change how he felt.

     Several hours later, a serious, gray-haired physician in scrubs approached them. He explained that he was a neurosurgeon who had been called in to oversee Peter’s case management. Using laymen’s terms, he tried to enlighten them as to what was happening behind the closed doors. He told them that Peter had not sustained any injury to his neck or spinal cord. However, he had withstood a substantial blow to the back of his head. Although there was no evidence of a skull fracture, Peter’s brain had traumatically impacted the occipital part of the skull causing it to bleed. In essence, Peter was in the throes of experiencing a subdural hematoma that was expanding slowly as more blood seeped out of the injury.

     “Our job right now is to continue to monitor the size of that bleed, Mrs. Burke. If it continues to enlarge, we may have to drain the blood. We also must be closely attuned to any swelling in your husband’s brain. That is life threatening as well, but we have tools in our arsenal to combat it like steroids and potent diuretics. Let’s cross each bridge as we come to it, and not look too far down the road at this juncture. If you would like, you can come back to see your husband for a few minutes before we transfer him to the ICU. I must warn you that he is not conscious at this time, but that does not mean that he won’t wake up soon.”

     Elizabeth looked at Neal with fear in her eyes, so he put his arm around her protectively. In turn, she grabbed onto his forearm firmly.

     “Come back with me, Neal, please.”

     So, that is how Neal came to gaze at his handler, who looked like he was simply catching a nap on the stretcher. There was no bloody gauze littering the floor, no bandages, or mysterious medical equipment surrounding him. Peter just looked peaceful, but also totally oblivious as Elizabeth held his hand and spoke to him in a soft voice. Neal could not find any words to say; how could he express his panic that he might lose the one man who held as much importance in his life as a long absent father.

     When he and Elizabeth returned to the waiting room, Reese made a wry face as he regarded Neal.

     “Caffrey, this hospital is located outside of your radius.”

     “Reese, please,” Neal said with an anguished expression.

     “I know, I get it,” the older man sighed. With a look that encompassed Neal as well as his two junior agents, he continued, “Regardless of the prevailing opinion, I am not the heartless android that you all think that I am. I have informed the Marshals that I want your coverage expanded to this hospital while Peter is incapacitated here as a patient. In the interim, I will be keeping track of your whereabouts on my phone, and they are to send me any alerts. Keep your nose clean, Neal. Don’t let Peter down, and don’t make me regret this.”

     “I won’t, Sir,” Neal fervently promised.

~~~~~~~~~~

      As promised, Peter was moved to the ICU within the hour. The family waiting room located outside of the unit was a bit more comfortable, and the small alcove became Elizabeth and Neal’s home away from home for the next twenty-four hours. It was at that point that the cascade of bad news continued.

     The bleeding in Peter’s brain was expanding and putting pressure on the surrounding tissue. The neurosurgeon had Elizabeth sign a consent form so that a small burr hole could be drilled through the back of Peter’s skull and a catheter introduced. The blood could then be siphoned away, lessening the possibility of permanent damage. However, even after this palliative step was successfully completed, the unconsciousness FBI agent was far from out of the woods.

     Peter’s adversities continued when the following hours saw his intracranial pressure begin to rise. In layman’s terms, an MRI showed that his brain was swelling, and that development was as deadly as the previous accumulation of blood. He was started on large doses of steroids and Mannitol, a powerful diuretic, in an effort to combat the edema within his head. Elizabeth and Neal did not sleep that night.

     The physician’s determined efforts kept Peter alive, and eventually CAT Scans showed that his brain had stabilized once again. However, the most frightening thing was the fact that he did not wake up. Thus, more neurologists were consulted, more EEGs taken, and more extensive metabolic blood studies were sent to the lab for analysis. The beginning of the third week found Neal and Elizabeth sitting side-by-side in a small conference room within the neurosurgeon’s office.

     As gently as possible, the empathetic physician explained that even though Peter was now stable, there was nothing else that they had in their bag of tricks to help him emerge from his comatose state. Even though random movements and the occasional eye flutter had been observed by the nursing staff, these were not unusual occurrences in patients locked in an altered state. In other words, it did not mean that Peter was truly aware or trying to awaken.

     “Your husband, Mrs. Burke, sustained a traumatic brain injury, which, in this instance, has resulted in a coma-like state. There are different degrees of brain injuries, and I would classify Peter’s as ‘moderate’ because of the prolonged loss of consciousness. I would not term it ‘severe’ because we see no definitive evidence of irreversible brain damage. His EEG shows active cortical function, his pupils respond to light, and his muscular reflexes are still present. These are all very positive signs. However, to be perfectly honest with you, there is a great deal that we do not know about the long-term effects of TBIs. Unfortunately, I cannot even guarantee that your husband will ever awaken, Mrs. Burke, or if he does, that he will not be suffering from any neurological deficits.

     Comas can last from several days to several weeks. In more severe cases, comas can continue for years. A deeper coma does not necessarily mean a slimmer chance of recovery. There are documented cases in the medical literature showing that some patients in a deep coma recover well, while others in a milder coma sometimes fail to improve.

     Best-case scenario is that the patient gradually comes out of the coma. The worst-case scenario is that the coma progresses to a persistent vegetative state. The final outcome depends on the cause, location, and severity of the initial injury. We know the cause and the location of your husband’s initial injury; however, our diagnostic tools can only tell us just so much about the long-term damage.    

     If, down the road, Peter does wake up, I want you to be aware that patients emerging from a prolonged unconscious state do so gradually, slowly acquiring more and more of their ability to respond. Do not believe what you see on those television medical dramas. Regaining cognizance is not instantaneous—there is perhaps just a brief few minutes of awareness, or, most likely, periods of confusion. That is the norm.”

     Elizabeth had paled after hearing Peter’s prognosis, or lack of one, and fought back tears. The kindly physician handed her a box of tissues. Even after all of his years practicing his chosen specialty, he never got used to having to be the bearer of such morbid tidings. He wished that he could offer this devastated woman and the equally shocked friend beside her something more tangible to hold onto in their misery. However, even though he had seen the worst of the worst, in the neurosurgeon’s opinion, there was always room for hope and miracles in this sometimes-cruel world.

     Elizabeth stumbled from the room with Neal’s arm around her shoulder. She suddenly shook off his grasp and hurried forward, not towards the ICU, but rather towards the exit doors. Neal quickly followed in her wake.

     “Elizabeth … El!” he called anxiously.

     “I need to get out of here, Neal! I need some air,” she wailed as her pace turned into a run.

     He caught up with her outside on the steps leading up to the hospital entrance, and gently guided her to a concrete bench. It was now a brisk November day, and they both shivered as Neal held her against his chest, her heart-wrenching sobs bringing tears to his own eyes. People passed them and quickly averted their eyes. Visitors coming to a hospital were, more than likely, well acquainted with the reason for such pathos. That old caveat of “Don’t judge anyone because you never know what battle they are fighting,” had never been more fitting.

     Eventually, Elizabeth calmed herself with only an occasional hiccup giving evidence of her meltdown.

     “He’s going to come out of this, Neal. I have to believe that.”

     “Yeah,” Neal agreed. “He has to because he’s too important a presence in so many people’s lives. You will not be going through this alone, Elizabeth, I promise. I’ll be there with you every step of the way.”

     When the pair returned to Peter’s bedside, they were soon joined by a social worker and a nurse facilitator. As succinctly as possible, they explained that Peter’s condition was no longer considered to be life threatening, so he did not need to remain in the Intensive Care Unit. Actually, by the mandates set out in his insurer’s health plan, services for his care could now be provided by a rehabilitation facility. The social worker had come prepared with a list of such establishments in the New York metropolitan area that specialized in the care of traumatic brain injury patients. A very well regarded one was actually located in Brooklyn.

     “Do you mean like a nursing home?” Elizabeth asked, her horrified eyes large and appalled.

     “No, no, Mrs. Burke,” the two women sought to reassure her. “Rehabilitation and Therapy centers are staffed by very dedicated medical professionals who create a specific plan of care for each patient. It is a team approach that may include psychiatrists, neuropsychologists, physical and occupational therapists as well as nurses who are certified in caring for brain-injured patients. Together, they all work as a cohesive group to help patients regain lost skills.”

     “But if Peter is in a coma, how can he take part in his rehab?” Elizabeth asked.

     “Each patient is evaluated at the end of a trial period that may be as long as three months. If, at the end of that time, there is no discernable progress, then other alternatives will be discussed with you,” the nurse facilitator explained.

     Neal heard the unspoken words. If Peter did not emerge from his coma at the end of three months, then a nursing home was lurking in his future. This was _so_ not how Peter Burke’s life should go, Neal thought miserably! Although the con man was now more scared than he could ever remember in his life, he valiantly stood tall and rock solid beside Elizabeth as she signed the proper forms.

     Peter’s transfer would occur in a few days; he just needed one last surgical procedure before he left the hospital. A gastrostomy tube had to be placed in his abdomen to replace the nasogastric tube in his nose that had been a means of providing him with sustenance. He had been receiving high protein and high caloric liquid supplements every four hours around the clock. Neal closed his eyes and shivered.


	2. The First Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people who care about Peter struggle to come to grips with the sudden void in their lives.

      Peter’s uneventful transfer to the Brooklyn Rehabilitation Center took place via ambulance. Hughes had again agreed to recalibrate Neal’s radius so that it now encompassed that part of Brooklyn, and he could accompany Elizabeth by car. The two watched like mother hens as Peter was efficiently placed upon a bed in a cozy, if barren, little room with a window that overlooked a courtyard of leafless deciduous trees. Elizabeth had the foresight to bring his pillow from home and his pajamas, as well as the familiar comforting quilt from their living room. Lastly, she placed a framed picture on the nightstand of the two of them on their honeymoon in Greece. Neal suddenly felt hollow inside. To the con man, if it looked like a nursing home and smelled like a nursing home, then don’t go to the trouble of glamming it up with a glorified title. However, he kept these morose thoughts to himself in deference to Elizabeth.

     The hospital administrator made an appearance quite soon and offered to take them on a tour of the facilities. It was culture shock—there just wasn’t any other word to describe it. First, they were escorted to a gymnasium where patients across the age spectrum were engaged in various activities. Most wore protective helmets, and a great many had wide cloth belts around their waists held by an orderly at their backs. Apparently, this measure was a necessary precaution for those whose balance was precarious. Some were striving simply to bounce a ball. Some, with a stiff-legged gait, were trying to maneuver their way between parallel bars. Some just sat on mats on the floor and gazed into space.

     Neal and Elizabeth were initially startled by the unexpected shouts, bouts of hysterical laughing, or crying that he heard. The administrator explained that one of the manifestations of brain damage was a labile and sometimes inappropriate affect that led to these emotional outbursts. It actually had no context to what was happening at the moment. Neal was getting more freaked out and more depressed with each new spectacle. However, he steadfastly clamped his jaws together and refused to let his own emotions show. He had to be strong for Elizabeth and for Peter.

     The stroll continued around the premises. Other rooms were occupied by therapists and patients, one on one, with the disabled undergoing the tedious task of speech therapy, dully trying to pronounce a word or to recognize the correct word for a picture that they were shown. Down the hall, bodies lay on tables while their limbs were lifted, flexed, and stretched over and over to preserve function and prevent the loss of muscle mass.

     “Now, of course, Mr. Burke will not be participating in most of these activities,” the administrator explained unnecessarily. “However, he will receive intensive physical therapy and will be intellectually stimulated on a set schedule by our psychologists in an attempt to draw him from his unresponsive state. We have multidisciplinary care conferences every Friday, and we certainly welcome all family members to attend, if they desire, to hear what our experts have to say.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     As promised, some member of the therapeutic team always seemed to be at Peter’s bedside from dawn to dusk. Rigorous physical therapy took place in his room, and other specialists poked and prodded him physically as well as verbally. There was always some new test scheduled each day measuring this or that, but most of the jargon went over Neal’s head. Sometimes, the medical group took heart when Peter randomly moved his limbs, temporarily opened his eyes, or obeyed a simple command. However, his stare never appeared focused, and these interludes were always brief.

     Neal and Elizabeth attended those weekly care conferences where they were advised that it was unclear how much a comatose person actually heard and understood in their nether world. Therefore, it was important that they talk to Peter, even if it appeared that he was oblivious. The sounds of familiar voices could prove to be a lifeline for a patient trying to claw his way back from the darkness.

     At first, Neal and Elizabeth both stayed for the greater part of each day with Peter. They got to know the personnel, from the doctors down to the housekeeping staff, and were on a first-name basis. They conversed with other visiting family members, and knew the history surrounding each relative’s admission. Neal vowed to himself that if he ever had a child, he would never, ever allow them on a motorcycle!

     Time took on a new connotation. Neal perceived it as a bubble surrounding Peter and his schedule, but eventually Hughes informed the CI that he had to return to work. The young man would never admit it to anyone, but he was actually glad to have an excuse to escape this terribly depressing existence for a while each day. Then, that very natural feeling suddenly began to seem like a betrayal, and Neal became even more depressed.

     Elizabeth was dealing with her own sense of guilt, too, as she began to sleep in her own bed once again. Now, instead of spending every waking moment at the center, part of her days consisted of catching up with household chores and bills that had been on hold for several weeks. However, she continued to miss her soulmate, as did so many others.

     As time went by that first month, worried and concerned friends and loved ones found their way into Peter’s room, each a bit nervous at what they would find. Each left hoping for a miracle. They also discovered that it was so it easy to bare their souls in the privacy and the solitude of a tiny room with someone who seemed to be listening even if he did not respond.

 

~~~~~Elizabeth~~~~~

     “Hi, Hon,” Elizabeth said softly as she cradled Peter’s limp hand in her own one night.

     “I really, really miss you and want you to come back to me. Actually, everybody misses you terribly—your White Collar team, Neal, Mozzie, Satchmo—but mostly me. I don’t sleep very well these days, so late last night I found myself leafing through some of our old photo albums that were stored in the closet. We both looked so young standing under the awning of that Italian restaurant that became our special place. Goodness, that seems like a lifetime ago! We were just starting out and had such high hopes for our future. And we made it happen, Peter, because we believed in each other. I finally got my dream venture off the ground and you got to head the White Collar division.

     I still believe in you, Hon. We still have a lot more memories to make. This is just a bump in the road, and we will get through it together just like we always have and be back to ‘us.’ I want to do the things that we always did together. I want to hold your hand while we take Satchmo for his walks. I want more picnics down by the river. I’m looking forward to a return trip to that Greek island where we spent our honeymoon, or maybe just a short plane hop down to Belize like the one we recently took. I cannot dream alone, Peter. I need you by my side, so please try to hurry home to me. I want to see you across the dining room table every night at 6 PM sharp, and I want to feel your arms around me in our bed each night. I want to turn back the clock and make us whole again. Please, please Peter, I need you!”

 

~~~~Reese Hughes~~~~~

     The crusty, old warrior sat beside Peter’s bed and looked down at his lap while trying to organize his thoughts. It had been a long, grueling day in the White Collar office, and it had taken its toll on the aging veteran.

     “Peter, never in a million years could I have envisioned this for you. I always foresaw you taking my place as head of the White Collar unit one day. I recognized such potential when you arrived, a bit older than most of our transfers who were fresh out of Quantico and still wet behind the ears. I felt that you possessed a perceptive wisdom that seemed to promise great things to come. And you never disappointed me, my friend. You put White Collar on the map and garnered respect for a unit that others saw as a feeble, soft stepchild in the FBI’s hierarchy.

     You still have a great many things to accomplish, Peter. You are certainly not done yet—I refuse to accept that you are done. This is just a temporary setback, yet another hurdle to clear, and I know that you are up to the task. Until that day, I will make sure to ride herd on your little sidekick so that he stays on the straight and narrow. I do not want you to have to trek upstate to Sing Sing to drag his ass back into the fold again. And I’ll keep Elizabeth under my wing as well. Get better, Peter, please.”

 

~~~~~Neal~~~~~

     Neal collapsed tiredly into the chair next to Peter’s bed and loosened his tie before he began talking to his partner.

     “You are definitely not forgotten at the office, Buddy. Everybody keeps asking about you, and a multitude of people keep informing me that they are praying for you. One very serious file clerk told me that she is making a novena, whatever that it, for your recovery. I suppose that I should Google that word to find out just what she is talking about so that I don’t look stupid. Anyway, I just thank everyone politely and tell them that their concern and prayers are appreciated. I don’t really know what else to say, and if I can’t find the words, then you know there is chaos in the universe. A good con man always has an ad-lib at the ready, so where does that leave me? I don’t mind telling you, Partner, I am really at sea here and need some help.”

     Neal sighed and sank down lower in his chair, fighting to keep his eyes open. His fatigue was making him vulnerable.

     “I know that you are a lapsed Catholic and all, Peter, and might even doubt the existence of God. To tell you the truth, I’m not so sure where I stand on that. On the one hand, I really cannot visualize being damned forever to the fires of a hell like Dante described in his _‘Inferno.’_ I also cannot fathom a forevermore sitting on a cloud plucking a harp and singing God’s praises. It seems as if there should be more somehow, rather than a definitive either/or option. Then, on the really bad days, I think that this life is our hell to endure, Peter, and only when we die can we find rest from the horrors. Maybe when we close our eyes that last time, there simply isn’t anymore to come, and our troubles and sorrows are finally over.”

     Neal tried to stifle a yawn. After a few minutes, he again picked up the thread of his thoughts.

     “It’s probably blasphemous, but sometimes I suspect that perhaps our existence might be God’s big cosmic joke. Our pitiful antics on that treadmill of life keep Him amused and there is no real destination. Now if you subscribe to Mozzie’s philosophy, it’s fate or karma that keeps us from arriving at our end point until we atone for the sins of our past. Do you believe that we keep coming back to get it right, Peter? I certainly don’t have the answer, but it’s something deep to contemplate in the dark of night.”

     Neal found that he had to smile. “Reincarnation might explain a lot, Peter. Perhaps, in a past life, you were my father and you failed to teach me the basic tenets of right and wrong. Now your task is to get the job done in this lifetime. Of course, that’s challenging, but maybe you were a real bastard in that past life and that is why the assignment now before you is no piece of cake. Maybe it’s my job to make it hard for you.

     Don’t like that scenario? Okay, maybe it was me who was the real son of a bitch in a past life and, as a punishment, I am destined to lose each and every person whom I have ever loved. I don’t like that possibility because that puts you, Elizabeth, Mozzie, and June at risk, and I would never want that!”

     Finally, Neal murmured softly to a silent friend just before falling asleep in the chair, “Peter, you know this is not who I am—a pitiful ex-con waxing philosophical like a Jesuit. Please come back. I need you to save me from myself.”

 

~~~~~Mozzie~~~~~

     One late afternoon, a man of the cloth appeared at the rehab facility. He was rather short and arrayed in a long black cassock with deep purple trim, and had a wide, matching sash swirled around his waist. A biretta, or black square cap with four peaks and a tuft in the middle, covered his head, and, of course, there was the traditional stiff white collar at his neck, and ornate gold cross nestled in the center of his chest. He piously approached the nurses’ station, smiled benignly, and introduced himself as Monsignor Abruzzo. He whispered in a soft, well-modulated voice that he was here to see Peter Burke at the request of Mrs. Burke. He would sit with the patient and pray for the man’s soul. Hopefully, those fervent prayers would help replenish the man’s corporeal body with God’s bountiful goodness and strength.

     When the prelate had been respectfully ushered into Peter’s room and the door politely closed, Mozzie looked askance at his former nemesis over the top of his glasses.

     “Well, Suit, this is one fine disaster! Do you have any idea of the havoc that you are causing with your little ‘Sleeping Beauty’ routine? Neal is one hot mess, and Mrs. Suit, well it pains me even to go there because it is just so tragic. The two people that I care about most in the world are both trying to keep the other from totally imploding. However, the longer the routine goes on, the less likely that either of them will survive this fiasco intact.” Then Mozzie began ticking things off on the fingers of one hand.

     “Mrs. Suit blames herself for not being more invested in your Egyptian passion. She is insisting that she should have been the one to go with you to that exhibit even though her job responsibilities took her elsewhere that day. Ridiculous reasoning, but there you go. She looks like a haunted soul, and I can’t seem to help her emerge from that dismal fog that surrounds her all the time.”

     Mozzie held up another finger. “Neal is drinking, Suit, and I mean a lot, and not just wine. He has graduated to the hard stuff. I know that I’m not one to cast aspersions, since my liver will probably dispute anything that I claim, but I am really worried about him. He doesn’t paint anymore; he hardly sleeps. He just goes to work and then comes here, day after day. It’s as if he’s living in a fugue state, and it’s damn scary. This is worse than the whole Kate debacle. At least then he could deal with his grief and eventually move on. This thing with you, well, he’s in limbo and he can’t move on.

     Do you want to know what the crux of the problem is, Suit? It’s ‘ _guilt_ ,’ plain and simple. He blames himself for talking you into having lunch at that particular restaurant that day. He feels that it is his fault that you wound up in harm’s way. Stupid, I know, but the heart feels what it feels even if that blame is illogical.

     And let me tell you, my friend, there is plenty more guilt going around. Everyone wants to take the responsibility for this tragedy. There’s more blame going around than in the Garden of Eden after Eve took a bite out of that apple.

     The poor schmuck who cut off the cab was late for a business meeting downtown that afternoon. He’s still seeing a shrink because he keeps having flashbacks from the day that he hit you, and is gulping sedatives like M&Ms. The Pakistani driving the cab lost his license and, therefore, his livelihood to support a wife and five kids. He is so regretting letting his temper rule his actions that he has joined an anger management support group. However, he’s still living on tenterhooks hoping that he won’t be charged with causing vehicular manslaughter. The list goes on and on.”

     Finally, Mozzie took a breath in his rant and looked at Peter sadly.

     “Look, Suit, I’m not accustomed to getting attached to anyone or asking for anything. From childhood to this day, I have not had to depend on anybody to make things right for me. I took care of my own problems and acquired whatever I needed by my brilliant expertise and exceptional brainpower. I never required or had to ask for assistance. Eventually, as the fairy tale goes, I met a young con man, but allowing Neal into my life was as much of an exception to the rule as I was willing to tolerate. But, circumstances change, even though we wish that everything would remain the same, and our little microcosm of the world would stay peacefully stable.

      Now I don’t even recognize myself because it seems that my doppelgänger is petitioning your help, Peter. You are the only one who can fix this, pardon my Italian, ‘cluster fuck.’ You need to come back to the land of the living and set everybody straight. They need you, and now I need you as well to make it happen. That’s right, Peter, you heard correctly. Like so many others in your life, I need you, too. Don’t let me down.”

     Having bared his soul and having said what he came to say, Mozzie then slipped from the silent room. He stopped briefly to make the sign of the cross and bless the nurses and aides seated at the nurses station with a soberly intoned, “ _Gratias ago Deus pro vinum._ ” It was his pidgin Latin for a loosely translated, “Thank God for wine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rehabilitation centers can be daunting places for patients as well as their families. But they are also places of hope where milestones and miracles take on a unique connotation for those on the road to coming back.


	3. The Second Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As time goes on, those closest to Peter try to come to terms with the chaos in their lives and accept a new concept of “normal.”

     Time marched on, but the passing of the days on the calendar held no significance for Elizabeth or Neal. Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas passed in a blur. Even though the Rehab Center tried to make things festive with twinkling lights and a scrawny Yule tree, the sad fact remained that the residents in this halfway house were not where they should be, surrounded by friends and family in their own homes. Neal didn’t even stay awake long enough to welcome in the advent of a New Year, much to Mozzie’s dismay. It was a waste of some really pricey champagne. Two days later, Neal was almost glad to return to work. It stopped him from thinking too much.

 

~~~~~Jones~~~~~

     Clinton Jones entered Peter’s room hesitantly, obviously uncomfortable in this situation. He found it very hard to converse—no, talk at—somebody so familiar, yet not really the same figure that he had come to respect and try to emulate. Peter was too still, and the life force seemed to have been drained from him. Nonetheless, Jones felt he owed it to the man who had given him his first break into the White Collar division of the FBI.

     “Hey, Peter,” Jones said after clearing his throat. “I thought that I might stop by and give you the latest scuttlebutt from the office. Hughes called me into his inner sanctum today and mandated that I should take over as Caffrey’s handler. He’s kept Neal on desk duty these last months, and hasn’t let him go out in the field on any ops. Now I suppose the honeymoon is over, and Neal has to pull his weight, and I am suddenly his keeper. This is just temporary, of course, Peter, until you get back on your feet. It’s not something that I’d want to continue after you come back. Actually, I am not sure that this is something that I want to take on even on a temporary basis.

     Peter, I could never replace you in Neal’s eyes. Hell, the slippery little bastard will probably take advantage and run circles around me, and I wouldn’t be able to rein him in like you do. I don’t think that he would run while you’re laid up, but does anybody ever really know how Caffrey’s mind works? Anyway, this whole thing has me worried. I don’t want to mess up. Likewise, I do not want Neal to mess up either and land himself back behind bars. I suspect that you would never forgive me if I let that happen.

     Look, Peter, I don’t want to put pressure on you while you’re trying to heal, but it would really be good if you would wake up so that I could pick your brain for pointers in handling your pet project. I am man enough to admit that I’m out of my depth here.”

 

~~~~~Diana~~~~~

     “Hey Boss,” Diana said fondly as she sat beside Peter’s bed. “I can’t tell you how much we are all missing you at the office. I sometimes forget myself and glance up expecting to see you sitting behind the glass. And I’m not the only one that happens to quite frequently. I see Jones and Neal doing the same thing. Clinton, poor soul, is rather something of a basket case right now. Hughes gave him the responsibility of being Neal’s temporary handler, and, I swear the man is about to break out in nervous hives. The big boss actually had a discrete talk with me before it all went down. He’s so ‘old school,’ poor thing. He claimed that Caffrey might take advantage of a woman and needed a stronger hand holding his leash. Do you really think that the old man isn’t clued in about me and my ‘less than ladylike’ personality?” Diana said with a snort.

     “Truth be told, Peter, even though I am not responsible for Neal, I am worried about him. That irritating, teasing quality is no longer right in your face, and he’s lost that exuberant joyful élan that always made you smile in spite of the aggravation that he caused. The swaggering strut and the panther-like grace have disappeared as well, and it looks as if he drags himself to the office each day. For lack of a better word, Boss, he seems lost.

     I’m sorry to dump on you like this, Peter, but I had to talk to somebody. Maybe I’ll swing by your townhouse and try to catch up with Elizabeth to get her take on the situation. Neal and Mozzie both spend a lot of time with her, and she might have a different perspective. But, maybe I shouldn’t bother her and simply respect Neal’s privacy. Hell, I hate to say it, and I’m never going to admit it to another soul, but I actually care about Caffrey. He gets under your skin that way, no matter how many obstacles that you put up to ward him off. Go figure!”

 

~~~~~Jones~~~~~

     A few weeks later, once again, Clinton Jones sat beside Peter’s bed.

     “Hey, Peter, I thought that I would stop by and give you an update on Neal and me. As strange as it sounds, Neal has actually been behaving himself. He does what I tell him with no snarky remarks or pushing the envelope by wandering off the reservation when it suits him. For Caffrey, this is uncharted, unnaturally tame behavior, and that has me worried that he may be up to something. Should I be worried, Peter, that he trying to con me? Damn it, I’ve never had to second-guess everything before I took over holding Caffrey’s reins.

     Okay, so maybe I’m overreacting because I’m so afraid of messing up. I certainly do not want to disappoint you, Peter, but it’s unnerving to be around a Caffrey who is suddenly so un-Caffrey. He’s like a robot going through the motions. To be honest, I don’t think that he is at the top of his game anymore. Hughes tore him a new one for messing up a sting yesterday. To be fair, it wasn’t all his fault. Sometimes, you just cannot pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute. Normally, Neal would have found a way to lie his way out of the corner that he was in, but he just couldn’t seem to spin it and we had to yank him out of harm’s way. Maybe he is only at his finest when he is working with you.

     Well, I’m sorry that I may have you worried now. I actually stopped by to reassure you that Neal was not causing mayhem in the White Collar office, and then I wind up telling you things that may upset you. I’m sure Caffrey will get back on track, Peter; he really doesn’t have any other option.”

 

~~~~~Hughes~~~~~

       Hughes arranged himself carefully on the chair beside Peter’s bed. He was tired—actually, Hughes realized that he was _old_ and tired, and hanging on by sheer tenacity alone. However, he owed his friend this visit.

     “Hello, Peter,” he began. “I know it’s been a while between drop-ins, but I made it a point to come today so that I can keep you in the loop. The powers-that-be above my pay grade informed me today that I have to put you on the disability roster. All of your vacation and personal time has been used up, and even the extra days that members of your team donated to you from their cache are gone. That means that Elizabeth will only be getting a portion of your salary, and she will have to ante-up the fees for your health insurance if it is to continue. I don’t know the state of your finances, or if you have anything socked away for a rainy day. I intend to talk with Elizabeth by the end of the week to make sure that she is okay financially. If need be, I will step up to the plate so that she does not lose the roof over her head.

     I cannot tell you how sorry I am to be the bearer of such disturbing news. On the bright side, I can tell you that Caffrey hasn’t flown the coop. I cannot figure the guy out. Well, maybe that is not entirely true. I know that you two shared a special bond, and I believe that connection is the only thing keeping him tethered to New York. He is a different person, broody and serious, and that, in itself, is unnerving. I took him to task today for something, and he just stood there like a zombie without batting an eye. I hate to say it, but I miss the little twerp who made wisecracks and had no respect. Peter, perhaps I am getting too old to do this job anymore and we need you back!”

 

~~~~~Neal~~~~~

     Neal stomped into Peter’s room later that evening, with an attitude that rolled off him in hostile waves.

     “Peter, can you believe that Hughes reamed me out today? He claimed that it was my fault that a sting went bad, as if he could have done any better. The old dinosaur was spouting off that my head wasn’t in the game! What does that bag of wind know about the game? I could have made his hair, what little there is of it, stand on end with some of my stories about being in ‘the game.’ Let me just say, Peter, that when you Feds were chasing me, you hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of my past victories. Well, sure, I clued you in to a few of the more mundane little escapades, but you were never privy to the really astounding stuff!”

     As if to justify his claim, Neal then began a series of stories that very few people knew about, and, to put it mildly, they were epic. He told Peter how, in his heyday of crime, he had purloined several masterpieces from the Louvre one dark night via the ventilation ducts. He and Mozzie had fastidiously wrapped the treasures in oilskin before secreting them in the labyrinth of tunnels and sewers below the city of Paris for a later retrieval when the heat died down. Easy peasy, no sweat—just one of many such larks.

     Neal followed up that unbelievable fable with another story that also involved subterranean caches. “I actually got into the Vatican museum, Peter, Swiss Guards be damned! I stole some small but priceless sculptures that found a temporary home in one of the series of catacombs below Rome. There are plenty of empty little niches in unlit sections of those mazes that once held the bones of Christians, so it was the perfect temporary place for our booty. You just have to make sure to take an accurate compass and a strong flashlight when you go back down into those crypts, or you’ll find yourself stumbling around for days.”

     Neal and Mozzie had apparently availed themselves of the old New York City tunnels, as well. “Moz and I wore city municipal workers uniforms and plunked a ‘Caution: Work Area’ little yellow sign above a manhole in a thoroughfare near Wall Street. It was the perfect access to the vault beneath a bank one block away. That Sunday, I blew the safe. People in the area just assumed that city employees were doing demolition in the area while getting paid time and a half for working overtime. Slam, bam, thank you ma’am. Our haul was an impressive two mil in unmarked bills.”

     The former con man gave Peter more and more to think about, each story more unbelievable than the next. The clandestine spoils also became more eclectic and stupendous. The accounts resembled a criminal grasshopper’s manic worldwide adventure tour, with glamorous cities like Stockholm, Madrid, London and Athens mentioned as well as the more exotic destinations of Macau, Hong Kong, and Myanmar.

     “So, there you have the highlights, Peter. I didn’t even touch on the frauds, swindles, or money laundering—those are just too boring to relate. Even so, if you ever wake up, you will still have lots of ammunition to nail my ass to the wall. C’mon, G-Man, I dare you! Wake up and try to throw me back in prison. You can’t be any more of a threat than Hughes. He actually said that if I did not start pulling my weight, the FBI would no longer require my services. Talk about a less-than-veiled threat! I can almost feel that scratchy orange jump suit and see the prison bars in front of my face. Please, Peter, save me from myself so I don’t have to start planning my next jailbreak.”

 

~~~~~Diana~~~~~

     Diana glided into Peter’s room, well put together as usual in her dark, business-like pantsuit.

     “Hey, Boss, it’s me, Diana. I know I haven’t been here in a while, but the office has been keeping me busy,” she offered up as she settled in for a little one-sided chat.

     “Try to imagine me as a runway model,” she continued with a snort. “I needed to strut my stuff to catch a guy who was hawking rare exotic rubies from Myanmar. I also had to sell myself as a prostitute in another undercover assignment. Caffrey and I actually make a decent team when we put our minds to it. And, I think that he does have his head in the game regardless of what Hughes or Jones think. When the chips are down, he gets the job done. He would not ever want to let you down.

     I wanted you to know that I visited Elizabeth just as I promised that I would do the last time that I was here. Believe me when I say that getting past that irritating little bald twit was a challenge—he actually wanted me to state the nature of my business before letting me through the door. Suffice it to say, I steamrolled right over that mini irritant, who had the gall to threaten me with assault charges. Is he really a lawyer, Peter? If so, then ‘the bar’ had to have been set exceptionally low!

     Anyway, Elizabeth is holding up okay. After all, she has two bookends, one on either side of her, lending support. Believe it or not, I think that is a good thing!”

 

~~~~~Elizabeth~~~~~

     Elizabeth sank slowly into the chair beside her husband’s bed, carefully setting her briefcase full of “Burke Premier Events” proposals on the floor at her feet.

     “Hi Hon,” she began tiredly. “Sorry that I’m a bit late tonight. I had to meet with several prospective clients for upcoming weddings and birthday dinner parties. Thank goodness I still have a decent reputation in the social world after my little hiatus. Oh, that didn’t come out right! I do not want you to feel responsible in any way for that comment. I wanted to be by your side while you were so sick in the hospital. Now I am feeling guilty that I can’t be here in rehab with you more frequently. I don’t want you to worry that there are any financial problems. My business will keep us afloat and we will be fine. Reese had the same worry, but I reassured him, just as I did Mozzie and Neal. However, Mozzie still insists on keeping the pantry and the fridge stocked. I haven’t had to buy groceries in ages, even though I have had to be a bit brave trying some of the exotic dishes that he concocts. Maybe it’s better that I’m not privy to all of the ingredients.

     And, speaking of the dynamic duo, you would have gotten a good laugh the other Saturday. Mozzie was in a snit when the television reception did not live up to his exacting standards. He insisted that Neal come over, and the poor guy had to channel a mountain goat to climb up on the snow-covered roof to re-adjust the satellite dish. My job was to hold the ladder because—well, I’ll bet that you didn’t know that Mozzie has a fear of heights, and that paralysis sets in if he even has to look up while somebody is high above him.

     Peter, Neal and Mozzie have been a godsend in so many ways. I probably could not have gone on without them. You need to thank them when you wake up, even if you have to grit your teeth when you see the esoteric and rather large sculpture that Mozzie installed in the backyard. Satchmo was actually afraid of it for a while. Now he just lifts his leg on it.”

     El sighed, and relaxed back into the recliner in the room. Suddenly the stresses and rat race routine of the day caught up with her. The early winter darkness outside the window made it feel like the middle of the night, and the warm air flowing from the vent in the room made her eyes heavy. Suddenly, she wanted to lie beside her husband and hold him in her arms, if only for a little while. Taking off her shoes, she shimmied up onto the narrow bed beside him, laid her head on his shoulder, and clasped his hand in hers.

     “I love you so much Peter Burke,” she murmured softly into his chest. Elizabeth was slowly sliding into the most wonderful dream because her soul mate was gently squeezing her hand and it felt so right.


	4. Picture This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal plans a heist.

     Elizabeth was out of town for the weekend in Connecticut overseeing a very chic, high-end wedding at a millionaire’s estate in Greenwich. At first, she was hesitant to go, but Neal practically pushed her out the door and promised to visit Peter and stay with him for most of Saturday and Sunday. Neal knew El needed some breathing room away from the claustrophobic walls of her husband’s room and the antiseptic smell of the rehab center. A bit of time on her own in a happy atmosphere would enable her to recharge her mental batteries and come back fresh before again facing her dismal routine at home.

     True to his word, Neal, dressed in casual jeans and a loose Henley, strolled into Peter’s hospital room and plopped down. Weekends were down times for the patients as well as the staff, so the unit was quiet and the atmosphere was laid back and easy.

     “Peter,” Neal began with a wry grimace, “Mozzie claims that my mind is turning to mush. He says that the FBI is not providing enough challenges for me, and that I am in desperate need of proper mental stimulation. So, with that objective in mind, he and I are reverting to an old, tried-and-true remedy. We have decided to devote ourselves to planning a heist. And not just your ordinary, boring, run-of-the-mill variety. This job is going to be stupendous, Peter. You would be impressed.

     Mozzie has spent the last few days diligently committed to making a precise list of the most heavily and ingeniously guarded places on earth. He actually came up with nineteen different sites. Now, not each and every one of those nineteen on the list lends themselves to our objective. You see, we do not just want to break in and enjoy the infamy of what is supposedly an impossible feat. We actually want to make it worth our while and steal something that will have a negotiable value.

     So, places like the Mormon Church’s Secret vaults full of genealogical records hold no appeal for us, although the records stored in Iron Mountain in that old limestone mine in Boyers, Pennsylvania do have potential. The digital backup of some pretty impressive companies on the New York Stock Exchange are said to be stored in over 1.7 square miles of vaults over 200 feet below ground level. But, we both came to the conclusion that the extensive work involved far outweighed the prize. Neither one of us wants to pour over piles of data that is probably outdated by the close of each business day. As for the other stuff stored there, I mean, really, who would seriously consider historic master recordings, photo negatives, and original film reels from Warner Brothers to be worth the effort? Today, most people have Netflix or Amazon Prime streaming.

     So, on to the next one—and I’m not even sure why it made the list. ‘Bold Lane Car Park’ in Derbyshire, England, in my opinion, is a bit over the top. You see, if you are seriously attached to your Lotus or your Aston Martin, fear no more when you store it in that garage. Believe it or not, as Ripley liked to say, each vehicle is individually monitored by motion sensors, and if anybody messes with it, the whole place goes into lockdown. Kinda reminds me of the drill at Sing Sing—well, except when I strolled out. Nobody realized a thing for hours, and it was almost anticlimactic.

     Okay, then—moving on. The next potential target is a really interesting one. Have you ever heard of the ‘Doomsday Seed Vault?’ No? Me neither, but trust Mozzie to come up with the arcane. As its name suggests, the vault, officially known as the Svalbard International Seed Vault, is designed to store a wide assortment of seeds in an effort to preserve crop diversity and assure that humans will have a source of food no matter what earthly disasters occur.

     The storage compound is located in Svalbard—one of the remotest places on the planet that is still fairly accessible. Svalbard is a large, barren rock island in the Arctic Circle, and the vault is situated inside an old copper mine. As if the isolated landscape weren’t enough, the seed safe is defended with blast-proof doors, motion sensors, airlocks, and one-meter thick steel reinforced concrete. Its unique climate and position should keep the seeds safe from any disaster, man-made or otherwise, for centuries. I suppose, if we were successful in our little heist, we could publish our own unique ‘Burpee Seed’ mail-order catalogue.

     All right, so now Moz and I are winnowing down our list, and have thought long and hard about breaking into a Swiss bank and pillaging the vault containing the safe deposit boxes. It has been awhile since I have visited Berne, and I have always had an affinity for that beautifully clean city nestled like a jewel in the Alps. All Swiss banks employ a three key system to open a safe deposit box, but Mozzie has made some mechanical alterations to a very directed, pinpoint laser that would drill a lock like a knife through butter. However, it would be potluck on our part. Unless we knew the names of the owners of the boxes, we wouldn’t have a clue if there might be something of value inside. Sounds like a very boring night’s work to me, so I passed on that one.

     So, Peter, what is the gold standard for every thief and robber that you have ever known? Pardon the double entendre, but it’s ‘gold!’ I mean, think about it. Pirates of yore who sailed the ocean waves coveted gold doubloons, and looted and plundered to get their hands on them. Back in 1848, prospectors swarmed in droves to Sutter’s Mill in California in search of elusive little gold nuggets. In the days of antiquity, the Magi added gold to their gifts of frankincense and myrrh when they followed that star to Bethlehem. Even your mummified little friend, King Tut, was entombed with golden amulets and assorted gilded trinkets so that he could barter with them in the afterlife. Now, let me tick off the places on our list that offer the allure of that gleaming little metal.

     First, let’s discuss the Iranian gold reserve. The kicker is that the location holding that little treasure trove is unknown. One could assume the vault is either in the Imperial Treasury location or the Iran Central Bank, but you know what they say about assumptions. Iran secretly flew gold into the country from Europe in order to dodge ‘financial pressure’ from the US and UK. Now that the reserves are back within Iranian borders, the location of their holding vault has been very elusive. But, to tell you the truth, I definitely do not want to be arrested in that particular country right now.

     Second on the list is the Bank of England’s gold vault—now the Brits are a civilized lot, even though their taste buds are rather bland. If Britain’s Queen or her Prime Minister wanted to store a secret, this would be the perfect place for it. The walls of the vault are bombproof, and the security system is so intricate that it involves voice recognition, three foot-long keys, and other security measures that aren’t even published. Mozzie’s research turned up the astounding figure of more than 4,600 tons of gold that is said to be safeguarded there. That figure is second only to the Federal Reserve Vault below the streets of Manhattan.

     Of course, Moz and I had also considered the Federal Reserve ‘cause it is literally located in our backyard. But, rumor has it that the Pink Panther organization tried something along those lines and it did not end well for them. Besides, I strive to be original. I don’t want to mimic another thief’s enterprise, especially if they made a mess of it. So, scratch the Federal Reserve. Which leaves us with our last option—picture this, Peter, Fort Knox in Kentucky. Now don’t roll your eyes; it’s doable.

     As everyone knows, Fort Knox is home to the U.S. Bullion Depository. It stores thousands of tons of almost pure gold. Granted, the facility is a logistical challenge. It is ringed with fences guarded by the United States Mint Police, and the depository premises are within the site of Fort Knox, a US Army post, allowing the Army to provide additional protection. The Depository is protected by layers of physical security, alarms, video cameras, microphones, mine fields, barbed razor wire, electric fences, heavily armed guards, and unmarked Apache helicopter gunships at the ready.

     Now let’s say that all of that could be circumvented—if a bank robber was somehow able to get through the solid granite wall perimeter and past the squadrons of machine-gun wielding guards and armed military, they would still have to contend with a 22-ton vault blast door held shut by a lock so intricate that it requires a ten person team to unlock. But, never fear! Mozzie, bless his dorky little heart, is a true genius and has created a tiny, very portable gismo that can do the work of ten men. It took him awhile, but he was determined. Voile!

     Okay, so now Moz and I are in the vault. The next logical question would be how can we escape with our prize? Even though you didn’t ask, I’ll tell you, Peter. It is a heavily guarded secret that there is an escape tunnel from the lower level of the vault to be used by someone who has been accidentally locked in. Ta-da!

     I’m sure that you are now visualizing two men lugging heavy gold bars in backpacks. You should know me by now, Peter. Everything that I have been waxing poetic about up to this point was misdirection. Mozzie and I are not interested in the gold—too heavy and too bulky and a real pain to melt down. Our prize is a bit more, shall we say, unique.

     Did you know that the vault at Fort Knox contains two very historical documents? One is an original copy of the Magna Carta, a charter signed by King John of England in 1215, the first recoded historical attempt to protect the rights of the citizenry of the time in merry old England, and the basis upon which the tenet of habeas corpus later emerged. The Magna Carta first came to this country to be put on display at the 1939 World’s Fair. When the Second World War broke out, the document was stored in Fort Knox for its safety.

     Likewise, there is also one of the original copies of the Declaration of Independence in the vault. Of course, the best-known version of the Declaration, a signed copy that is popularly regarded as the official document, is displayed at the National Archives in Washington, D.C., but the copy safeguarded at Fort Knox is no less authentic and valuable.

     Now I’m done with the history lesson, Peter, so I’ll move on to the next phase. Again, I’m going to ask you to use your imagination and picture this—Moz and I lazing the days away in a country without extradition, perhaps a little jewel of an isle with thatched grass huts and beautiful girls. The whole globe is so technologically connected now; it certainly would not be hard to set up a little auction via the Internet, our own version of EBay. We could offer our esoteric little prizes to the highest bidder from a hammock strung between two palm trees. Of course, interested countries could offer to ransom back the merchandise before the auction, if that was their wish. I guess we’ll just have to wing it and see how this all plays out,” Neal concluded as he sank back in the padded lounger and closed his eyes for a minute.

     He had been talking almost non-stop for the last hour, and was debating whether to get a bottle of water from the vending machine. Coffee, of course, was out of the question. It didn’t even smell good when it streamed out of that little automated spout. Neal sighed to himself and acknowledged that it had felt good to have his brain cells firing on all cylinders. It almost made him forget the sorrow that overshadowed his days. He really missed that familiar banter with Peter that kept him on his toes. So mired down with introspection, the con man almost didn’t hear the soft sound when it came.

     _“Catch …… you.”_

     The hesitant words were very low and raspy, and at first Neal thought his hyperactive mind was playing tricks on him, or he was having an auditory hallucination. Nonetheless, it gave him goose bumps. He sat up and regarded Peter warily. His former partner was still, and his eyes remained closed. But, Neal had to know.

     Slowly and distinctly, while intently studying the prone man, Neal whispered, “No, Peter, you won’t catch me.”

     After a beat, the formerly silent man turned his head and focused on Neal with clear, comprehending eyes. _“Will so.”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Epilogue

     It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in early spring, warm enough to sit out on the patio with just a sweater. Neal was in a chaise lounger with a sketchbook on his knees. He would frequently glance up at the older man beside him who was totally engrossed in the New York Times crossword puzzle. Occasionally, with his forehead creased in deep thought, Peter would pull his concentration from the newspaper to stare at the oversized stone sculpture that graced Elizabeth’s rose garden. This was usually followed by a disgusted shake of his head.

     “For the life of me, I can’t fathom what possessed Mozzie to conceive of that … thing … as art,” Peter groused.

     Neal just smiled and didn’t comment. There was simply no way that he was going to get into that argument. He was just happy to have Peter back, whole and intact, once again. From the day that Peter had uttered those first few words, his evolvement had steadily progressed. At first, it was slow and plodding, but then it was as if the floodgates had burst open allowing Peter to surge zealously back to his rightful reality. Neal could only described it as nothing short of astounding. The neurosurgeon who had first treated Peter had been right to believe in miracles.

     Peter’s stay at the rehab facility was extended for another six weeks, and he was checked and rechecked with every neurological examination that the experts had at their disposal. He passed every test with flying colors. The gastrostomy tube had been removed, and, with the addition of real food, he was gaining back the pounds that he had lost. His muscle strength had returned thanks to long walks with El and Satchmo. He looked healthy and like his old self.

     Now he was bored sitting at home doing Sudoku and word puzzles, so Neal starting bringing him files from the office to peruse. With Hughes’ blessing, tomorrow would be Agent Burke’s first real day back at his old desk on the 21st floor of the FBI building. Neal was bound to secrecy, but he suspected that Peter knew about the surprise breakfast reception being planned in his honor by the White Collar team.

     “It’s going to feel so good to be back where I belong,” Peter said wistfully. “It’s as if the last few months were a dream that happened to somebody else. When I try to remember, it’s like they were never real.”

     Neal suddenly started to fidget. “Peter,” he began carefully, as if tiptoeing through a minefield. “Do you have any recollection of the things that people said to you while you were lazing in your bed resting your eyes, so to speak?”

     Neal’s handler looked at his CI with the hint of a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

     “Afraid that you might have revealed too much, Neal?” Peter teased.

     “Well, no,” Neal protested. “It’s just that there were a lot of people who stopped in and talked to you during those months. I’m sure they all had very inspiring words of wisdom for you. I was just curious if you remembered any of them?”

     Peter took pleasure in drawing out the suspense, but eventually placed his hand on Neal’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

     “Maybe I do, Buddy, but I guess you’ll never know for sure.”


End file.
